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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26746660">Don’t Bats Hang Upside Down, Though?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickgrysvn/pseuds/dickgrysvn'>dickgrysvn</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Whumptober 2020 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bruce Needs a Hug, Bruce takes a beating, Clark to the rescue, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Oops, Whumptober 2020, as bruce, bruce gets kinda beat to shit, it’s a bit torturistic, leave your toxic masculinity at the door, listen, no Batman this time, no sleep we die, once again I stayed up all night to finish a fic, superbro feels</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:35:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,577</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26746660</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickgrysvn/pseuds/dickgrysvn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s freezing cold and pitch black when Bruce jerks awake. For a moment his brain is a jumbled mess of confusion and blind panic before everything hits him like a bucket of icy water. It takes him much longer than he’d like to admit to realize he actually has just been hit by a bucket of icy water. He has a head injury, then. Of course. He’s hit with what he can only assume is the third bucket of ice water then, leaving him gasping and spluttering as the freezing water fills his nose and mouth. He coughs harshly, tasting iron in the water running down his face. Head injury for sure, and bad enough to bleed.</p><p>{Bruce wakes up chained to the ceiling of a dingy basement. He’s in a bit of trouble. Whumptober prompt fill for day 1 - waking up restrained + shackled}</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clark Kent &amp; Bruce Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Whumptober 2020 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947247</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Whumptober 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Don’t Bats Hang Upside Down, Though?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>HI! So. Here’s my first ever Whumptober fic. I knocked this out in about 12 hours yesterday so.  Hopefully it’s decent, who knows. I haven’t written for Batman very much so I had a lot of fun with this. Part of this is me just indulging my head canon that Bruce has a slight English intonation and vernacular, and it gets stronger when he’s concussed and/or exhausted, so some of the terms and words he used and describes things with are a bit more British than usual. Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>  It’s freezing cold and pitch black when Bruce jerks awake. For a moment his brain is a jumbled mess of confusion and blind panic before everything hits him like a bucket of icy water. It takes him much longer than he’d like to admit to realize he actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>just been hit by a bucket of icy water. He has a head injury, then. Of course. He’s hit with what he can only assume is the third bucket of ice water then, leaving him gasping and spluttering as the freezing water fills his nose and mouth. He coughs harshly, tasting iron in the water running down his face. Head injury for sure, and bad enough to bleed. He chokes a bit more on the water, but he’s grateful for the bit of clarity it seems to provide him. He can’t see enough to see who’s standing in front of him, and he can’t hear them over the ringing he’s just now registering in his ears, if they’re saying anything. His lack of cognitive awareness is concerning, to say the least, but even more so is the lack of his cowl. The water in his eyes and running down from his hair informs him that it’s missing, and he panics just a little. He tries to move, attempting to rush the man in front of him, but he’s brought short with a harsh jerk, sending pain through his shoulders and wrists. He barely registers the jangling of chains, and he painfully cranes his head up. His hands are shackled, hoisted high above his head and chained to what must be a hook or pipe in the ceiling. As he gains more mental clarity, he becomes more aware of his physical situation. The ache in his shoulders roars into a fire, and he realizes he’s simply hanging. He scrambles to get his feet underneath him, alarmed to feel his feet are bare against the cold, wet stone floor. His movements feel sluggish and awkward, and it takes him much longer than he would like to relieve some of the tension on his arms. The second he gets his feet under him, the roaring fire in his shoulders turns to white hot irons as the weight is taken off them. He can’t help the groan of pain that escapes his numb lips, and through the dull ringing he hears a harsh chuckle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>  “Ah, there you are, Mister Wayne. Good to have you with us!” Bruce’s clouded brain catches onto his own name, and a chill unrelated to the water runs down his spine. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No…</span>
  </em>
  <span> A light is flicked on somewhere above his head, and Bruce winces as the sudden brightness sends daggers through his skull. He squints, trying to adjust his eyes to the light. He needs to be able to see, he needs to take stock of his surroundings. He’s still frustrated that he can’t remember how he got here or what he had been doing prior to being knocked out. He’s determined that he was simply just knocked out and not drugged, noting the lack of symptoms, but that’s about all he’s been able to deduce. He growls in frustration, jerking against the chains. He immediately regrets it, the fresh wave of pain in his wrists and shoulders making him wince, but he gets a response. “Please, Mister Wayne, there’s no need to injure yourself any further! We just want to talk, that’s all!” The man’s tone conveys an image of him with his arms up in a placating gesture, but Bruce can hear the undercurrent of a wicked smirk. Another bit of information he can use. This man, whoever he is, is revelling in this situation. He’s enjoying this, and he’s extremely confident in his upper hand. That confuses Bruce a bit. Either this man is purely insane, or Bruce is in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>lot </span>
  </em>
  <span>of trouble. The handful of times he’s ever woken up in enemy hands, there’s usually an undercurrent of fear and apprehension in the men he’s being held by. The only time there wasn’t anything but this same wicked self-assurance… Bruce lets his head drop, hoping it gives the illusion of a dejected man. He hears a pleased hum from the man, and he knows it’s working. Carefully, he opens his eyes, the light sending another stab of pain through his head. He lets them adjust, and when he can finally keep them open, he attempts to take stock of his surroundings. Immediately, he notices the lack of his suit. Instead, he’s met with the sight of soaked and filthy trousers, and a now bloodstained white button-up, the hem hanging crumpled and slightly torn over his waistband. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ah</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The last time he’d ever been held and faced with this level of confidence, he’d been Bruce Wayne when he was taken. Relieved, Bruce closes his eyes. They don’t know he’s Batman, at least not yet. He was taken as Bruce, which means there’s a more likely chance of him being found and rescued. And the head injury coupled with the ringing in his ears implies an explosion of some sort. That will have drawn attention, certainly. On the other hand, it means he won’t have the Batman to rely on. Not unless it’s his last resort. Bruce decides to see if he can shake his captor’s confidence a little bit, see if he can shake some important details loose. He lifts his head slowly, plastering his well-practiced debutante smile on his face. He’s sure it’s a gruesome sight, he can taste the blood on his teeth and feel it still running warm and sticky down his forehead. Sure enough, the man in front of him falters just slightly. Bruce grins even wider to see he was correct, as the man is indeed standing with his hands out in a false gesture of mock peace. But just like that, the flash of confusion vanishes from the man in front of him. But it’s enough for Bruce. He’s set the terms a bit more in his favor, showed he’s not going to be quite so easy to break. Not like last time. Before the Batman had ever been born, Alfred had made him learn self defence so it never happened again. Bruce can lean on some basic self defense if he needs it without giving away his secrets.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<span>  The man in front of him is nearly a head shorter than Bruce, and he takes the next few moments to size him up now that his eyes have somewhat adjusted. He’s short and stocky, and Bruce estimates he’s probably the same weight as himself despite the 6 inch height difference. That could prove a slight difficulty, but Bruce can also see the beginnings of a beer belly on the smaller man, and there’s a lack of definition in his biceps exposed by the vest he’s wearing. Clearly the man isn’t in perfect shape, and Bruce imagines he can take advantage of that. He doesn’t immediately recognize him, the rough beard and dark scraggly hair not matching any names or faces he might know as Bruce Wayne. The man starts talking again, but Bruce is suddenly unable to hear him as the ringing in his ears flares up again. He winces, as if trying to pull away from the sound, and the man stops talking. He starts again, and Bruce squints and attempts to read his lips. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sorry to… hit so hard… apologize… information… unpleasant… </span>
  </em>
  <span>is all he can make out through the throbbing in his head, the glare from the lights, and the occasional double vision. He gets the gist though, and he can practically hear the false sympathy oozing from this man like the oil that shines on his beard. Bruce decides to push his buttons a little bit.</span>
</p><p>  “Sorry, chap, can’t quite hear you over this bloody ringing in my ears,” he drawls, tasting blood with every word. He can hardly hear himself, but he can feel how English his words sound, and he winces internally. Oh well, it should help his identity, in any case. The man frowns slightly, and Bruce smiles winningly through his bloody teeth. The man’s eyes flash darkly, and before Bruce can even register it, there’s a fist being slammed into his sternum. It knocks his carefully placed feet out from underneath him, and Bruce yelps breathlessly as his wrists and shoulders are forced to take the brunt of his weight again. He struggles to catch his breath, the force of the punch and the sudden brutality of it knocking him off balance mentally just as much as physically. He can feel the wheeze in his throat, and his hearing returns just in time to hear the man suddenly just in front of him. There’s a hand roughly fisted in his hair and his head is jerked back so harshly it sends cartoon-like stars across his vision. The man’s breath is warm and suddenly incredibly loud in his ear, and Bruce swallows convulsively against the brutal angle his head is being held at, struggling to breathe. </p><p>
  <span>  “Can you hear me now?” the man growls into his ear, and it’s so loud it causes Bruce to wince again. “Ah, there we go,” the man practically purrs, and it sends an involuntary shiver down Bruce’s spine. “Let’s try this again, shall we? I </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>apologizing for my men being so… rough before, but now… Well let’s put it this way. You tell us what we want to know, without mouthing off, or I’ll beat the shit outta ya, hear me?” Bruce can’t even attempt a response, his throat is too restricted, but it’s clear the man doesn’t want one. He forcefully moves Bruce's head in a bastard imitation of a nod, yanking roughly on his hair, before shoving his head away. Bruce gasps desperately as his throat is given a break, coughing painfully as the man laughs pleasantly in front of him. Bruce shudders, sagging against the shackles, and revises his earlier assessment. This man clearly </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>certifiably insane, and Bruce is definitely in a world of trouble, doxed identity or not. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Well shit.</span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
  Bruce must have passed out a bit after that last ordeal, because he’s suddenly jolted awake again by a harsh slap to the face. It cracks his head sharply to the side, sending more pain shooting through his throbbing temple. It grows and settles into a sharp staccato, and he imagines this must be what Zeus felt when Athena was hammering on the inside of his skull. He groans softly, rolling his head slowly back to face the man again, feeling the ever present burning in his wrist and shoulders. His fingers feel a little numb, but he can feel a few trickles of warm liquid moving down his forearms. His stomach twists sharply, telling him he’s been here for quite some time. His head feels a little clearer, though the pain is still severe. He thinks he remembers a little bit of what he’d been doing before he woke up here, and he’s assured to remember for certain that none of his kids were with him. He vaguely remembers walking up to his Porsche after a meeting or perhaps a lunch date, reaching for the door, and then a blinding, deafening explosion, a sharp pain in his temple, and then– nothing. There must have been a bomb planted under his car. Not in it, or he’d be dead. He remembers enough to know he was hit over the head afterwards, meaning the blast wasn’t meant to maim or kill, just incapacitate. The man’s attempted false apology and subsequent attitude tells him these men, whoever they are, are brutal and ruthless and all too happy to hurt him. He’s not even certain they actually want something from him. Oily beard man said he wanted information, but the lack of questions and the quick, efficient brutality tells Bruce another story. If there is a motive to his kidnapping, it doesn’t seem to match the abuse he’s facing. It worries him. If there’s no motive, or if somebody has hired someone else, the chances of him surviving are very slim. He’s willing to bet somebody wanted company secrets, and they hired this man to get it. Only, they made a mistake in hiring a psychopath who’s more interested in causing pain than getting the information they want. And there’s almost nothing more deadly to Bruce than that. </p><p><br/>
<span>  Bruce spits fresh blood from his mouth, running his tongue along the cut that just opened inside his lip. Oil man is smiling at him, and with Bruce sagging against the chains the way he is, Bruce is beneath the man’s eye level. It’s not a position he likes, as he catches the pleased glint in the man’s eye as he looks down at him. He slowly tries to get his feet under him again, and he sees the way the man’s eyes darken. There’s a split second where Bruce can see exactly what the man is planning, but there’s nothing he can do when the man kicks his legs out from underneath him. Bruce drops against the chains </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and the cry of pain that rips from his throat is the loudest sound he’s heard in this dingy basement since he woke up. Instantly, Bruce hates it. The way the man’s eyes light up at the sound is enough to make Bruce sick. His shoulders and wrists protest against the abuse, and he tamps down a whimper as the muscles feel like they’ve been lit on fire. The man bends over a little and meets Bruce’s eyes, reaching out to grip his chin with fingers tight enough to bruise. Bruce sets his jaw in determination, looking the man right in the eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>  “Now. Tell me what you know about Superman.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>  What?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>  Bruce is so surprised he just stares at the man in confusion. Wrong move. Bruce is completely blindsided by the blow to his exposed ribs, the smack of what seems to be a crowbar against his side shockingly loud in the otherwise quiet room. The pull on his ribs from his arms extended above his head makes the impact worse, and he feels something crack as another strangled cry is ripped from him. He groans, unable to stop himself, and he focuses on nothing but breathing through the pain. The man’s fist is in his hair again, yanking Bruce’s head back again and cutting off his precious air supply. </p><p>
  <span>  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>What do you know about Superman?!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he growls violently, and Bruce spasms against the pressure on his throat. The man releases him again, and Bruce coughs, his whole body trembling. </span>
</p><p>  “I don’t… know…” he attempts, still gasping, but the man isn’t having it. He swings the crowbar up in a wild, powerful arc, and Bruce shuts his eyes in an attempt to brace himself. The impact against his left forearm is lessened by the awkward angle the man is swinging from, but it’s enough to send a shockwave of pain through Bruce’s battered arm from shoulder to fingertips. He bites down on his tongue this time in an attempt to stifle another cry, so hard he tastes more fresh blood. He’s not sure if his arm is broken, but he knows it’s not good. He’s willing to bet there’s a new hairline fracture in the bone, and the full weight of his body on it is decidedly not good. The man growls again in frustration at Bruce’s lack of reaction, and despite expecting more pain Bruce is grimly satisfied. Sure enough, Bruce is sent reeling with a quick backhand, and he spits blood yet again. He shakes his head briefly in an attempt to clear it, but his vision swims. Any more hits to his already injured head, and he might not ever recover. He needs to get out of here. He carefully shifts his hands a bit, biting back a wince as the chains jostle his cut and bruised wrists. He wraps his right hand slowly around the chains, pulling himself up just a fraction. Not enough to be noticeable, but just enough to take some of the weight off his left arm. His forearm is throbbing fiercely, and Bruce is legitimately worried about putting too much pressure on a possible fracture. </p><p>  The man stands up, tapping the crowbar absentmindedly against his leg. Bruce can’t help the way his eyes stay trained on it, watching it’s movement. </p><p>
  <span>  “Let’s try this one more time. What.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tap. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Do.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tap. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“You.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tap</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Know.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tap</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “About.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tap. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Superman?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Clang!</span>
  </em>
  <span> With lightning speed, the man swings the crowbar up again, smashing it directly into the manacles. The force of the metal on metal sends his wrists and arms buzzing painfully all the way down into his shoulders, like hitting a baseball the wrong way with a metal bat, times three. Bruce yelps in surprise and pain, and the man smiles. “I won’t ask again, Mister Wayne.” He settles the crowbar against the spot on Bruce’s forearm he hit a minute ago, pulling it away and back again experimentally like a batter winding up for a pitch. “I can break your arm like it’s a toothpick, and I won’t hesitate.” Bruce knows he’s not bluffing. The man’s voice is cold and yet almost gleeful, and Bruce knows he wants nothing more than to break his arm. Bruce shuts his eyes. </span>
</p><p>  “I swear, I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know anything about Superman,” he says, letting an almost pleading tone slip into his voice. He hates himself for it, but he’s hoping it will satisfy the man a bit. His accent sounds more like Alfred than it usually does, and Bruce hopes it helps his case. The man tilts his head, watching him thoughtfully, and then Bruce sees the way his eyes glint in the harsh light. Bruce’s heart sinks, and he closes his eyes as the man draws the crowbar back in a powerful swing. He braces himself, and then–</p><p>
  <span>  “Bruce! Bruce are you there?” Bruce nearly cries in relief. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>  Clark. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>  The sudden voice yelling his name from above them is enough to startle the man in the middle of his swing, although it doesn’t stop him entirely. Bruce is opening his eyes, about to call to Clark, when the crowbar hits his already bruised forearm. It’s not as much force as the man had been trying for, and it’s not in the exact same spot, but it’s good enough. Bruce’s cry for Clark turns into a strangled scream, and all he knows is white hot pain, burning and searing through his arm. He loses his grip on the chain, dropping all his weight onto the freshly injured arm, and he can’t help the second scream that rips through his teeth. He feels a blast of cold air, and his brain briefly registers it as Clark, rushing into the room. There’s a brief scuffle, a cry of pain, the sound of something impacting the wall, and then he’s being lifted carefully off the ground. He does cry in relief now as the weight is taken off his arms, and Clark makes a strangled sound deep in his throat that throws Bruce off. He peels his eyes open, trying to see why Clark sounds so </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>  “Clark?” His voice is wrecked, and he’s barely conscious he knows, but right now all that matters is seeing why Clark sounds so distressed. “You okay, mate?” he slurs, and Clark lets out a watery laugh. </p><p>
  <span>  “Yeah, Bruce. I’m okay. What about you, pal? You look like you went six rounds with a blender,” Clark retorts, attempting at humor, but Bruce can hear the distress still there. In his current state, it’s all he can focus on. Clark turns away from him for a second, and there’s a brief sizzling sound and then the chains are loose around Bruce’s wrists. Within seconds, Bruce is being picked up bridal style as Clark slowly lowers his arms. Bruce is distracted from his concern over Clark as his shoulders protest the sudden change in movement, and he doesn’t even try to stop the whimper that escapes his lips. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, Bruce, but we need to get you down, okay? I know it hurts, I’m so sorry,” Clark mutters, and Bruce doesn’t understand why he sounds so </span>
  <em>
    <span>watery</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>  “Cl’rk?” His words come out hopelessly jumbled, and Clark has the grace not to comment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>  “I know, Bruce. I know. Let’s get you out of here, okay?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>  Bruce attempts a nod, but it sends his brain spinning. He tries to answer instead, but all that comes out is a soft hum, and he finally gives in to the darkness pulling at the edge of his vision. The last thing he’s aware of his Clark softly reassuring him that he’s safe. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>  Clark Kent has seen Bruce go through a lot, and take a beating like no other. But every time he’s been Batman. There’s something terrifyingly different about seeing him go through it as </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bruce. </span>
  </em>
  <span>When Clark saw the news about Bruce Wayne being caught in an explosion and kidnapped outside a cafe in broad daylight, he wasted no time in flying over to Wayne Manor as fast as he possibly could. Alfred greeted him as calm and collected as ever, but Clark could hear the way his heart was beating a staccato of anxiety. Dick was there as well, his hand clamped tightly around Damian’s shoulder as if to keep the young boy from running after shadows with every weapon in his father’s arsenal. Clark wouldn’t blame him if he did. </span>
</p><p>  Clark stood there in the kitchen, eyes closed as he listened for Bruce’s heartbeat. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about it when he couldn’t locate it. Instead he listened for any mention of Bruce’s name, or anything about Batman. A chill had run down his spine at the thought of this being about Batman, but he pushed it aside and focused. Plenty of people were talking about Bruce, and he filtered through the voices, tuning out the people discussing the news as simply gossip or the current biggest event. After nearly an hour just listening, he hadn’t been able to take it any more and he flew off, circling first the city and then slowly widening his search, listening for Bruce’s heartbeat and any mention of him or Batman. After nearly 8 hours, he’d heard nothing, and his heart ached. He was about to give up, hovering a mile above Philadelphia, when he heard it. </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>  Ah, there you are, Mister Wayne!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>  Clark straightened up like a lightning rod, body tense  and buzzing as he listened. He lost it for a moment, the voice fading in and out like a bad radio connection. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lead. Dammit</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It explained why he’d had such a hard time locating Bruce’s heartbeat before. Whoever was speaking then, however, seemed to be far enough away from the offending metal to at least let Clark hear part of their words. For a minute there was nothing, and then Clark heard </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mister Wayne</span>
  </em>
  <span> again, followed by some faded words. Something about apologies and information and Clark didn’t like the sound of it one bit. He attempted to focus on the man’s heartbeat, hoping to be able to locate him. He tried to pinpoint the location, but the constant fade in and out made it difficult. He eventually narrowed down a relatively small area, a several block radius in a shady part of Philly, but he needed more. He landed in an alley, in the center of the radius he’d narrowed it to, and listened again. For a few minutes, there was nothing. And then Clark heard </span>
  <em>
    <span>know about Superman,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he froze. He focused even harder on the man’s heartbeat, nearly shouting in triumph when he was able to locate the exact block it seemed to be coming from. He was there in a half a second, tucked into another alleyway as he listened again. This time when he heard his own name, it was much clearer and much closer, but each word was followed by a dull thud of what sounded like metal on flesh. It didn’t sound like there was a lot of force behind it, but it scared him all the same. Then came the sound of something being swung through the air, but Clark couldn’t hear the sound of an impact. That didn’t mean it hadn’t landed, however. Bruce seemed to be somehow in a dead zone, and if that blow had hit Bruce it might have killed the sound. He honed in on the man’s heartbeat, pinpointing his exact location just as he heard </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I can break your arm like it’s a toothpick, and I won’t hesitate.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Clark was off like a rocket, slamming through the front door of an abandoned building and taking out the four men standing guard inside with one motion. He skidded to a halt and listened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>  “Bruce! Bruce are you there?” Even as he had yelled it, he suddenly picked up Bruce’s heartbeat, fast and thready and </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrified. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It jumped at his voice, and Clark smiled. And then he heard him scream. Clark had never heard Bruce scream like that, and he never wants to again. It ripped from his throat like the air being sucked out into space, and Clark bolted down into the basement. He slammed to a halt in front of the man just as Bruce screamed again, and it was all he could do not to kill the man then and there. He easily blocked the man’s shocked and clumsy swing with a crowbar, and one punch sent the man flying into the wall. He turned to Bruce then, carefully lifting him off the ground enough to take the weight off his mangled arms. He immediately noticed the lead-lined manacles, explaining why he couldn't hear Bruce until he was practically right on top of him. And then Bruce was </span>
  <em>
    <span>crying</span>
  </em>
  <span> in his arms, and Clark couldn't stop the choked sob that bubbled up. Bruce’s eyes slid open then, trying to figure out why </span>
  <em>
    <span>Clark</span>
  </em>
  <span> was distressed, damn him. He called him </span>
  <em>
    <span>mate</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Clark couldn't help but laugh through the tears threatening to fall. He tried to tell Bruce he was fine, tried for humor, but Bruce still was only concerned for Clark. Clark decided to focus on getting Bruce down, and he cut through the chains that were thankfully just normal. Bruce let out a pitiful whimper when Clark picked him up the rest of the way and moved his arms, and he apologized profusely, hating the way he was causing his friend so much pain. </span>
</p><p>  The way Bruce said his name after will haunt Clark for the rest of his life. It was slurred almost beyond recognition, the word so far gone with pain and yet full of nothing but concern for him. Clark was almost thankful that Bruce passed out then, because he didn’t think he could have handled more selfless concern from him. Not when he was the reason Bruce was hurt to begin with. Still, flying out of that building with an unconscious Bruce Wayne in his arms was terrifying. Almost never has he had to carry Bruce like that, and he hopes he never has to again. </p><p> <br/>
  He brought Bruce back to Wayne Manor nearly 10 hours after he’d been taken. He was immediately ushered into the Cave, where Alfred directed him to a bed in the medical bay already prepared for him. Clark almost wondered if they should take him to a hospital, but Alfred quickly assured him that trying to explain how Clark had been the one to find him in Philly and get him back to Gotham so quickly would be rather tiresome. So they’d gotten to work taking care of Bruce’s injuries, and Clark had never wanted to hurt people so badly in his life. If Alfred noticed the way Clark’s knuckles were white or the way his hands were trembling with rage, he didn’t mention it. Clark was grateful. </p><p><br/>
  That was 6 hours ago. Clark now sits at Bruce’s bedside, where he’s been for the last three hours. They moved him upstairs to his room after three hours in the med bay, after Alfred was certain he was stable enough to move. Or rather, Clark carefully carried him upstairs, floating just a few inches above the floor so as not to trip over anything. Clark had insisted Alfred go to bed, as it was 1 in the morning by the time they got him comfortable upstairs, and the older man had reluctantly agreed. Clark, however, refused to move. </p><p>
  <span>  He reaches out and carefully slides his fingers under Bruce’s right hand, careful of the bandages wrapped around his wrists and the IV in his arm. He closes his eyes and listens to his heartbeat, finding comfort in the loud, steady rhythm he can’t ignore. 10 hours without hearing Bruce’s heartbeat despite actively looking for it was a nightmare, one Clark hopes he never has to relive. He hadn’t realized how often he listens for it without even noticing until it was gone. He’s suddenly hit with the overwhelming need to listen for everyone else’s, and he spends the next few minutes focusing on each heartbeat in the Manor. First Damian’s two doors down. It’s slow and steady, indicating he’s fast asleep. Then Dick’s a few doors further down. It’s racing a bit, too fast to be asleep, and Clark frowns. He seems anxious. Maybe Clark should try to talk to him. He listens for Tim’s heartbeat, not surprised to hear it racing like he’s had one too many cups of coffee. He probably has. But he seems like he’s restful regardless, so Clark moves on. He moves his focus downstairs, locating Alfred in his room on the first floor. Alfred’s heartbeat is calm and restful, and Clark is grateful the man is actually asleep. He then listens outside the house, searching for Jason’s heartbeat. Jason’s is strong and moderate, and Clark figures he must be out as Red Hood. He finds Stephanie next, and then Cass. Both girls are asleep, and he’s not entirely surprised to find them in the same room. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sleepover, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks smiling. Barbara is next. He’s again not surprised to find her awake, but she’s calm and restful. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Probably texting Dick</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Good. They’re all safe and accounted for. It helps ease his own worry, and he knows Bruce will be grateful to know they’re all safe when he wakes up. He grabs his phone to send a text to Dick, but then he notices his heartbeat slowing down. Listening carefully, he hears Dick talking, and he smiles. Barbara must have called him. He puts his phone away and focuses back on Bruce, taking in the pale skin and the neat stitches across his forehead, the casted arm and the bandaged wrists. He knows there’s an ice pack wrapped loosely around his ribs as well, and he sighs. He hates this. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This was because of me. </span>
  </em>
  <span>They took Bruce, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bruce</span>
  </em>
  <span>, because they wanted to know about </span>
  <em>
    <span>him. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Bruce endured a ruptured eardrum, a skull fracture, two cracked ribs, torn ligaments in his shoulder, lacerated wrists, and a fractured arm because someone wanted to know about Superman. Clark </span>
  <em>
    <span>hates </span>
  </em>
  <span>it. </span>
</p><p>  “Hey Bruce. You’d probably call me a coward for saying this while you’re unconscious, but… I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being the reason you were taken. I’m sorry I couldn’t find you sooner, I’m sorry you had to go through this. Finding you like that… Gosh, Bruce, you scared me. At first, when I couldn’t find your heartbeat, I thought you were dead. I thought I’d lost you, and that thought terrified me. I can’t lose you, Bruce. I can’t. And then when I found you, and I heard you scream like that… please don’t ever do that to me again, okay?” Clark takes a deep breath, grounding himself in the feel of Bruce’s hand in his and his steady heartbeat in his ears. There’s a slight shift in Bruce’s heartbeat. </p><p>
  <span>  “You’re right,” comes the mumbled, hoarse voice from the bed. “You are a c’ward,” Bruce practically wheezes, and Clark barks out a laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>  “Yeah okay, mate,” Clark quips, eyes sparking with amusement at the way Bruce’s eyebrows knit together just a little. Clark can see him trying to decipher the insult or mocking tone he thinks is there, but his brain is taking a while to catch up. Clark laughs again, squeezing his hand gently. “Glad to have you back, my friend,” he says softly, and Bruce lets his eyes fall closed again with a soft hum. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>  “Hnn. Thanks,” is all he says, but for Clark it’s enough. It means he’s forgiven, despite Bruce not thinking there’s anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>to</span>
  </em>
  <span> forgive, and Clark latches onto it with both hands. Just as Bruce’s heartbeat slows back down into a pattern of sleep, Clark’s sharp ears pick up a few more words. “You’re not gonna lose me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>  Clark smiles and lets his head fall onto the mattress next to his and Bruce’s hands, and that’s how Alfred finds them a few hours later. Bruce had somehow managed to slide his left arm over just enough to get his fingers tangled into Clark’s hair, and Alfred is just mischievous enough to snap a picture on his phone and send it to the family group chat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ah, brotherly love. </span>
  </em>
</p>
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